


Santa Claus

by paperstorm



Series: 12 Days of Stucky Christmas [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brooklyn, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, POV Outsider, POV Sarah Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorm/pseuds/paperstorm
Summary: Part 2 of the 12 Days of Stucky Christmas series. Steve doesn't believe in Santa.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Series: 12 Days of Stucky Christmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559701
Comments: 25
Kudos: 60





	Santa Claus

_1929_  
  
“Did you write a letter to Santa yet?”  
  
“Santa isn’t real, you know.”  
  
Sarah looks up. Steven is sitting on the threadbare rug in their living room. His skinny legs are stretched out in front of him, one sock slouching down around his bony ankle, fair skin gleaming in the low light. On the shabby couch behind him, James is lying flat on his back. His ankles are up on the arm of the sofa and his socked feet are crossed. Steven’s head is tipped back, blond hair splayed out like a golden halo across James’ thigh. He needs it trimmed, it’s getting far too long and unkempt. Maybe on the weekend, she can make time for that. Their kitchen scissors are dull and rusty, but she could borrow a sharper pair from Mrs. O’Brien down the hall.  
  
“I know that,” James answers, annoyance seeping just barely into his voice.  
  
“Then why did you ask?”  
  
“Well, what if I didn’t? Don’t ruin it for other kids who haven’t realized yet.”  
  
“We’re 11,” Steven points out. “Anyone who hasn’t sorted that out by 11 years old deserves to have it ruined.”  
  
Sarah frowns. He’s been sick, this week, and he gets grumpy when he isn’t feeling well, and frustrated about how often he isn’t feeling well compared to the other children in his class. His lungs seem to be worsening, and that’s concerning. Their doctor keeps touting flashy new treatments, but she doesn’t have the income to afford them since Joseph passed. Still, she doesn’t like to hear Steve with a vindictive tone on his tongue. That isn’t her Steve. Her son, when he doesn’t have a fever and a headache and a rash on his chest, is kind and caring and thoughtful. There’s fire in him, though. She’s always seen it. He’s good-hearted but he won’t stand for being stepped on, and he won’t stand for anyone else being stepped on either. On the surface those are good qualities, but sometimes he reacts a little too vociferously to things that don’t warrant quite as much rage as he spits.  
  
James is much gentler. He’s been a good influence, she thinks. As if on cue, James gently admonishes, “that’s not nice. Please don’t tell Becca, she still believes and I promised my folks I wouldn’t spoil it.”  
  
Steven heaves a heavy sigh. It rattles in his congested chest, his asthma combined with the cold causing a cough that lasts a few long seconds before he catches his breath enough to reply, “of course I’m not gonna tell Becca, don’t be stupid.”  
  
It would be well within reason for James to snap back, to respond in kind, but he doesn’t. He never does. He is endlessly patient with her hot-tempered son. He has been since the day they met five years ago. Sarah smiles down at the soup she’s stirring as she hears him kindly respond, “thanks, Stevie. I owe you one.”  
  
Another sigh, and Steven’s voice softens. “No, you don’t. Sorry, I’m being a jerk.”  
  
“You’re just sick,” James says, understandingly. Always so patient. “Want me to go? Are you tired?”  
  
“Don’t go,” Steve answers, in a small voice.  
  
“Okay,” James promises, “I won’t.”  
  
On Christmas Eve, Sarah has to work a long, slow shift at the hospital. Steven is invited for dinner at the Barnes household down the street. He says he’ll go, and Sarah hopes he does. He doesn’t always tell her the truth, these days, but he loves James more than he loves anything else in this world. That much would be obvious from miles away, from a different state, from across the ocean. Sometimes she feels as if she’s losing her baby, but all children grow up and drift away, and she’s happy to share him with James. She’s happy to know if anything ever happened to her, Steve would be well taken care of by George and Winnifred.  
  
When she arrives back home, well after the sun has set and the streetlamps have gone dark, there is a body skulking around in the dark of their apartment. She assumes it’s Steven, even though it’s well past his bedtime, but then startles when she realizes it isn’t and nearly jumps out of her skin.  
  
“Sorry, sorry, just me!” James says, holding his hands up, wincing apologetically when she turns on the overhead lamp and floods the room in orange light. He looks genuinely contrite.  
  
“James,” she breathes, putting a hand to her chest, feeling her racing heart under her ribcage. “You surprised me.”  
  
“Sorry,” he says again. His handsome face remains twisted in a remorseful expression. It is handsome, even though he’s still a boy. He will be devastating, in a few years. She feels pre-emptively sorry for the neighbourhood girls. They won’t know how to handle themselves in the face of that charming smile.  
  
“It’s alright. Is Steve asleep?”  
  
James nods. “I, um.” He holds up a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a length of twine. “I let myself in with the spare key. Wanted to leave this.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Paint brushes.” His face changes, morphing from embarrassed to pleased. Happy with himself, for bringing Steven a present. “They aren’t the best quality in the world, but. I was going to give them to him tonight. But then I thought it would be more fun to make him think Santa Claus brought them.”  
  
In her chest, warmth blooms. It spreads in tendrils out to her extremities. She smiles, and tells him, “he won’t believe it. He’ll know they’re from you.”  
  
James shrugs sheepishly. “I know.”  
  
“Leave them there,” she says, pointing to the coffee table. “I won’t tell him anything, if he doesn’t figure it out.”  
  
“Thanks, Mrs. Rogers.” James does as she asks, and then makes his way to the door. “Merry Christmas,” he says, before he leaves, and she kisses his cheek and returns it.  
  
In the morning, Steven rolls his eyes sullenly the moment she tries to tell him the brushes are from Santa. But then, his expression melts into something else as he looks down at them fanned out in his hand. It isn’t annoyance at all. It’s tender, and happy. He knows exactly who they’re from, even though neither of them have said it out loud.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me [on tumblr](http://paper-storm.tumblr.com/) [or twitter](https://twitter.com/turningthedials) if you want!


End file.
